"So, You're Saying We Shouldn't Expect You Next Year?"
The above line was the response I got when somebody I ran into in Kimberley asked me what was new. Last weekend was my first annual trip back to where it all started for the last McCrimmon clan generation, Kimberley B.C. My brother and I were both born there (in the late '80's), and still know a lot of guys out there through my dad Jimmy.
Kimberley is a strange and wonderful place. As far as I could tell, everyone there has a nickname, a bald spot, a beer in their left hand, and another beer in their right hand. We went out in a group of six, and hacked our way around two beautiful golf courses like blind woodsmen. My brother yelled "Nice punch!" to me in the woods after every second shot all weekend. The running joke was that the next time I could make it out there I would have my own foursome, but I am not sure I want the kids to see their old man riding around in a power cart with a bottle of cheap Irish whiskey in the cupholder until they are at least 30. This same sentiment might explain why my dad never brought me out there until this year.
In baby news, we have finally been set up with a specialist, which is good. Our current family doctor is a smart dude, but apparently he is as frightened by mysterious lady parts as the rest of us fellas. Our appointment is coming up this week with the new OBGYN, and I think it will put a few minor concerns to rest. I know that if I was the one pregnant with triplets, I would probably want to have a chat with someone, so I know Pookie will be a little more at ease. Most likely it will start with a high five, and the ever-present "You two sure are going to be busy!!". Thank you so much doctor.
All that aside, we have received great medical and fertility help so far (especially fertility), the doctors and nurses have been great. The issue is that every time our family doctor makes a referral, the girl up front refuses to fax it to wherever it goes. Papa Bear damn near committed his first over-the-phone strangulation before it got sorted out, but Pookie laid down the anger and wheels began to turn. After jacking Pookie around for three weeks the dolt actually had the berries to ask "What's the rush, are you having pains or something?" If you are reading this, damn your eyes woman.
Rant aside, things are pretty much normal aside from a few small changes. There is some baby stuff in the living room, Pookie is glowing like a firefly's ass (seriously, could not be cuter with her rosy cheeks), and the dog has that ominous look like he crapped in the dining room and knows you are about to notice. Other than the baby stuff, these things are familiar.
It's coming though, when you walk into a living room full of baby blankets you know you may as well put your golf clubs way in the back of the shed, you won't need them for a while. Even if I was a half decent golfer I wouldn't care, we can't wait for the big day.
Update coming after the next appointment, should have more good news.
As always, keep it real.
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